CONTENT WARNING: Domestic Abuse, Mention Of Murder

I’m the author of this story, and this one has the same then-boyfriend. There were lies and other bad situations. After one incident, he “apologised” by gifting me a pretty tennis bracelet.

Boyfriend: “It was actually my ex’s, and she returned it to me she didn’t want it anymore when we split up. I’m just regifting it so it’s not wasted. I spent several grand on it as it’s platinum with alternating diamonds and rubies.”

I worked in a jeweller’s and had experience with this.

Me: “You should get your money back; you’ve been scammed. It has the hallmark of 925, meaning it is silver, and rubies are red, not bright pink.”

He yelled at me that 925 was platinum and that I was stupid and whatnot, so I left it. And I also left the bracelet when I finally left him.

For some reason, he decided to give it to me again, and as I didn’t have the energy to deal with his BS, I just took it with the plan to throw it away. I was stopped by my mum, who felt that it would be a waste because it was “pretty”.

A year later, I unearth the bracelet accidentally. I decide to take it to a shop to see if I can sell it. The jeweller there asks if I know what the stones are.

Me: *Dryly* “Well, I was told it was a platinum bracelet with diamonds and rubies.”

Jeweller: *Looking extremely awkward* “I’m really sorry, but it’s unlikely that it is…”

Me: “Oh, yes, the metal has the hallmark of silver, and rubies aren’t pink. I said this to him. He yelled that it was. He yelled that I was stupid and that I didn’t know anything. I worked in a jeweller’s for three years, but I know nothing. I doubt the stones are even cubic zirconia; they have no sparkle. I know it’s worth jack s***. F*** all. Absolutely nothing. Honestly, I want to throw the f****** thing down a drain or smash it up, but apparently, that’s a waste! So, I’m stuck with looking at that pretty thing I’d normally love but I so f****** hate. I hate what it stands for. I don’t want anything but for it to f*** off out of my life.”

The jeweller is staring and I realise how emotional I’ve gotten.

Me: “I’m… sorry about that… and the swearing.”

Jeweller: *Slowly* “My sister was killed by her partner. I’m glad you’re away from him.” *Pauses* “Also, I can give you a choice. You’ll get a voucher for [Expensive Local Coffee Shop], regardless of choice. That’s yours. I can even join you if you want company, even if it’s not to talk or say anything, but you can talk if you need to, as well. Or you can go alone; it’s fine. I won’t be offended. But your choices are… I take the bracelet from you today and gift it to like… a charity for abuse victims. They can choose to sell it to raise money or give it to someone who’d appreciate it and not know its history. Or, you can come round to the back, take my jeweller’s hammer, and smash it. It’s not a waste to do that, as you’ll benefit from it — and that’s not a waste. That’s never a waste.”

I ended up giving it to the jeweller to be gifted on; I don’t really have the personality to break something. And I still chat to the jeweller.

Related:
Crossing The Line From Hangry To Unacceptable

I work at a costume jewelry and handbag shop. We have extra lighting to make our store look brighter. A customer comes up the counter with a purchase.

Customer: “The lights are too bright!”

Me: “I’m afraid I don’t have any control over them, ma’am.”

Customer: “They’re draining my inner energy! You need to turn off at least half.”

Me: “I’m afraid I can’t do that, ma’am.”

Customer: “But they’re draining my inner energy!” 

Me: “…cash or credit?”

A customer walks in and just casually drops two diamonds onto my counter.

Customer: “I have these two diamonds. Pretty sure they’re half a carat each.”

Me: “Are you looking to sell them or appraise them?

Customer: “Neither. I want you to combine them into a one-carat diamond.”

It took way too long to explain to him why we couldn’t do that.

When I was in my late teens and early twenties, I worked in a retail store that had a jewelry counter. A male customer in his late twenties or early thirties came in. He came up to the counter and smiled at me.

Me: “What can I help you find, sir?”

Customer: “What do you think I should be looking for?”

Me: *Confused* “Well… only you would know that. Are you looking for men’s jewelry, women’s jewelry…?”

Customer: “Whatever you think. Pick what you like.” *Winks*

At that point, I was tired of his nonsense already, but I tried to remain professional. We looked through some pieces in the men’s case, and he decided on some men’s bracelets; it was a set that had three. One blended in with the other, so I only saw two.

Me: “Just the set of two, then?”

Customer: *With a sly smile* “There are three there. Am I making you flustered?”

Me: “Um, no. You’re not. I’m in a relationship.”

Then, he asked me to show him where we kept the rugs, and I informed him that another associate would have to help him, and I went on break.

Fifteen minutes later, I got moved to a register, and guess who came to my line?

I pretended not to recognize him and he got angry.

When I was about six, I decided I wanted to get my ears pierced. My mom was enthused about the idea and took me to the mall to get it done at one of those little jewelry shops. (Yes, yes, I know, that’s a terrible place to have it done, but it was the 1990s, and that fact wasn’t as well known, and it’s not the point of this story).

I was nervous about it, but I was excited, too. My mom was honest with me and told me it would hurt a little bit but not for long, and she was sure I could be a big brave girl.

When we got there, there was another mother there with her daughter, who was slightly younger than me. The little girl was less sold on the idea of getting pierced, but she was also very tempted by the pretty jewelry she would get to wear if she did, and she was having a hard time deciding one way or the other. My mom, clearly bursting with motherly pride, offered to let the little girl watch me get mine done to see that it wasn’t that bad.

Now with an audience, I was extra determined to be a big girl. I sat down in the chair, the piercer got the ladybug earrings I’d selected ready, and in a few seconds, I had them newly attached to my earlobes.

To be honest, it really didn’t hurt that badly. I even said so after the first one, all smiles, and barely flinched for the second. But about thirty seconds later, as my mom was talking to the other girl’s mom and the little girl was starting to pick out her own set of earrings…

Me: “Mommy? I feel kinda funny…”

And that was how we learned that I have a vasovagal response exacerbated by orthostatic hypotension. Or, to put it more succinctly, I faint a lot and with very little provocation. They had to lay me down on the floor and put me in the recovery position until my blood pressure stabilized while the other little girl looked on in horror. She did not get her ears pierced that day, and my mom apologized to the other mother profusely.

And now, more than twenty-five years later, I am very familiar with the recovery position, and I can’t have any of the piercings I want!